


The Fourth Law

by kurtshappinessisblaine (Slwmtiondaylite)



Category: Glee
Genre: Androids, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied forced prostitution, M/M, Physical Abuse, Romance, Science Fiction, Thoughts of Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slwmtiondaylite/pseuds/kurtshappinessisblaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sci-Fi AU. There are Three Laws that are paramount. Any robot who breaks any one of these Laws is subject to immediate disassembly. The Fourth Law, however, is the most dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is influenced by Janelle Monae’s LP, Metropolis; Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot; Stephen Spielberg’s A.I. Artificial Intelligence; Ekaterina Sedia’s The Alchemy of Stone; and, Christina Perri's "Human". And probably several other things. 
> 
> It is also something that's been stuck in my head for literally years. And now, with Glee winding down, I figured I might as well get it out of my head. This fic will not be finished before the series' end. And I'm going to try my hardest to have a consistent posting schedule. At least once a week.

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

 

He opened his eyes and looked down the side of the bridge. Eight hundred feet. Two hundred and forty-three point eight four meters below. The icy river below blurred. He didn’t understand this. He blinked his eyes, clearing them. Small rivulets of clear liquid ran down his face. His cold fingers came up and swept them away. Clear liquid designed to emulate tears. But they weren’t real. This…

This hurt.

A harsh cry escaped his lips and he looked up, straight ahead. Beyond the river. To the horizon. The full moon had risen. The clouds had taken over. Quiet shuttles darted across the sky, dancing in the clouds. Snow fell, its gentle snowflakes coating the city in a light blanket.

Just a step.

Just a step forward. It was something that should be simple. Easy. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take that step. He tried to step forward, tried to bring his foot out and over but something—something deep inside, a sharp zap—stopped him. He cried out and his balance wavered. He wasn’t able to do it. His legs wouldn’t cooperate. They couldn’t.

He closed his eyes and his fingers tightened on the wide suspension cables. Why couldn’t he do it? He was a prisoner. Prisoner in his own body—it wasn’t even a real body; no heartbeat, no breaths. Pinocchio wants to be a real boy—prisoner by the law. By programming. Why couldn’t he? No one would care. No one would notice. The incident would just be chalked up to unfortunate malfunction. An unfortunate loss of merchandise. He’d be replaced. Another one, one that looked just like him, sounded just like him and, for all intents and purposes, was him would be sent in his place and no one would care. No one would notice.

No one noticed now.

The few people that walked past him, holding hands and laughing—they didn’t care. They didn’t notice. They didn’t care. Didn’t even care that they passed him as he stood on the edge of the bridge, hands on the cables, feet on the rails. They didn’t notice, didn’t care that he stood here on the edge of the bridge, wavering in the growling wind.

He was going to jump. He was going to fall.

He wanted to jump. He wanted to fall.

If he stayed here long enough, if he waited until the strumming in his chest and the ticking in his mind stopped, then it could happen.

Yes. If he waited until his body shut down, he’d fall. Fall into the river below, hitting the jagged rocks beneath the surface. Smashing. Shattering. Floating away. Tiny little pieces no one cared about.

He could fight the inclination, the need to return as his inner springs slowed. Dig his fingers into the cables, feel them bend underneath his grip. Stay here. Stay here until the end. He didn’t want to beg for it. He didn’t want to get on his knees and beg for the Key. Didn’t want to hear his laughter, his snide remarks.

He could fight the programming. It was just a series of ones and zeroes, of meaningless code. It was nothing. It wasn’t real. These feelings he felt deep inside, those were real. They had to be. Ones and zeroes didn’t hurt like this.

He didn’t want to do anything but wait right here. It would happen soon. He just needed to wait. He needed to be patient.

He closed his eyes.

He could wait.

“Don’t do it.”

His eyes flew open. His foot slipped on the rail. He reached out, a gasp escaping, and seized the cables, catching himself. Don’t fall. You’re not allowed to fall. Against everything.

The man—dark curly hair, amber eyes; he’d seen him before—

_He ran his hand up the microphone, gripping it. He closed his eyes, leaning forward, intent on the music. Breathe deep. He doesn’t need it, doesn’t need the air to survive but it rushes from his chest, across the delicate box in his thorax. He sang. He held the note out, let it carry across the room._

—He darted forward, a hand held out in front of him. He seized the jacket. “Oh, god. Don’t fall!”

Please, leave me alone.” The words came out as a soft request. Don’t yell. Can’t yell.

The man—he’d seen him at Sector 10, sitting in the audience, attractive features—

_He opened his eyes. And there he was. Standing. Cheering. Smiling. Loudest in the club._

_His performances were the talk of Sector 10. Everyone was there to see him perform. But this man was the one who caught his attention._

—He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can.” No one cared about him. Why would they? He wasn’t real. He wasn’t. Go away. Go away and just ignore him like everyone else. A small spark of electricity sent shivers through his body. Go back to him. Beg him. He clamped his hand around the cables. Felt the thick wires compress beneath his fingers.

_Fight it. You can fight it._

“No, I can’t.” The man leaned against the railing, leaning over and looking up at him. “Hey, you’re the guy—you’re the singer.”

“There are many singers. Please, be specific.”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. You work downtown. At Sector 10, right?”

Worked? He lived there. He belonged to Sector 10’s owner. He was chained there. He couldn’t escape there. But that’s not what this man would want to hear. Humans want veiled truths, especially when the truth is unpleasant. “Yes. I am under their employment.” Not a lie. An embellished truth.

The man smiled. “Thought so.” Yes. That was what he wanted to hear. He held a hand out, waiting for him to take it, to shake it. “Blaine Anderson. Pleased to finally meet you.”

He looked at Blaine’s extended hand. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you’re standing on the edge of a very tall bridge. About to jump. Maybe you’re thinking no one will miss you. Maybe you’re thinking no one will notice. I’m telling you that someone did notice you. And that same someone will miss you.” Blaine extended his hand again. “You don’t need to do this. There is no problem which can only be solved this way.”

He shook his head. “Please. You do not understand. You cannot.” He closed his eyes. Blaine needed to leave. He couldn’t stop him from doing this. This was his only chance at escape. He needed to do this. It was the only way. But this man, Blaine—he wouldn’t understand. He would never understand. “Please, leave me alone.” He closed his eyes again.

Small tremors rattled through the rails beneath his feet. His eyes snapped open. He looked to his right. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. He gasped. “What are you _doing_?”

Blaine stood next to him along the railing of the bridge, his right hand reaching out to his side to grasp the cable of the bridge. “Joining you.”

He shook his head. “No. You cannot. You will fall.” Why is he putting himself in danger?

Blaine looked at him, smiling. “So will you, but you’re up here.”

“I mean to be.”

“Maybe I mean to be, as well.” Blaine’s feet trembled on the thin rail, unsteady, and he swayed. “It’s slippery up here, isn’t it?”

“Please, get down.” He looked at Blaine. Why was he doing this? He was going to fall.

Blaine laughed then looked out beyond the bridge. “Beautiful night.” His feet wobbled beneath him and his body wavered. And he slipped, crying out.

He launched himself at Blaine, shoving him off the bridge and onto the safety of the sidewalk, tumbling down with him. He landed on the man with a _whoomph_.

_Law Number One. Never ever let any harm befall a human._

He acted without thought. Without consciousness.

Blaine laughed, letting his head fall back into the snow beneath him. “You saved me. My hero.”

He stared down at the amused man. “You were endangered.”

Blaine pulled himself up on his elbows and stared in his eyes. “I knew I wasn’t. I knew you’d save me.”

Small falter, his eyes growing wider. His hands clenched. He tensed, ready to run. Did Blaine know? He pushed away until he sat back, his legs on either side of Blaine’s waist, his hands on his chest. “How?”

Blaine shrugged and he smiled. “I don’t know. Just knew. Now that you’re on top of me, are you going to tell me your name?”

He looked down, looked at their perceived situation and a rush of electrons through his system ran to his cheeks. He blushed and pushed away. “It does not matter.”

Blaine tilted his head, his brow furrowed—his vast database of human emotion told him that Blaine’s expression was confusion. “Of course, it matters. Everyone does. I’ve told you mine, tell me yours.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He wasn’t able to stop them. It wasn’t his real name. Model CT052490LP. That was his name. The designation on his registration forms. On the receipts given to his owner. But it wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t him. He had a name. A real one. That he’d given to himself. The name his owner had humored him with, allowed him to use. The name he wanted. The name he envisioned gracing the marquees of grand performance halls and not stuck to the bottom of ratty flyers affixed to vandalized and graffitied walls advertising equally ratty dives.

“Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine smiled. “Kurt Hummel.”

Kurt shuddered as his name rolled off Blaine’s tongue.

“I like it.”

He scrambled off Blaine, putting distance between them. He doesn’t understand the wave of emotion he felt with Blaine’s simple words. He’s never felt it before.

A compliment not related to his voice. Or his ability to do anything else. Things he’s not supposed to do.

A zap sparked through his body. A slight stutter. He needed the Key. He would not last much longer. “I, uh, I have to go.” There wasn’t time to stay. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t engage in conversation. He turned, away from the bridge, away from Blaine. He couldn’t stay. He had to go.

Two steps, feet crunching in the snow, and then—

He seized Kurt’s hand, his fingers wrapping around Kurt’s. “Wait,” Blaine said.

Kurt stopped, another shock through his system—

_Law Number Two. One must always obey the orders given by a human. Provided that order does not conflict with Law Number One._

He looked down at their joined hands. Held hands. He was holding hands. His eyes followed Blaine’s arm up, up and up to his face. “Yes?” he whispered. What did he want? He couldn’t stay.

Blaine swallowed and took several quivering breaths. “I—Are you going to be okay? I would never forgive myself if I saw your face on the Wire tomorrow morning.”

The Wire. City 40-48’s news system. Where the Police and Droid Control announced dangerous criminals and wayward androids, where they announced dead citizens. Broadcast on immense transparent OLED screens spread across the City. Replacing the smiling faces of people selling products, replacing the blank stares of Dalton Laboratories’ latest androids.

But Blaine wouldn’t see his face. No one would care if he died.

He wasn’t real.

But Blaine apparently didn’t know that.

He should tell him. But he couldn’t do it. Kurt dropped his gaze to their joined hands. He didn’t want Blaine’s opinion of him to change. They just met, but already, Blaine was kind. “You will not. I will be fine.” He won’t be seen on the Wire because he wasn’t human. He wasn’t important. He wouldn’t be on the Wire because he was incapable of doing what he wanted to do. But he wasn’t going to tell Blaine that.

Blaine tilted his head. “Will you?”

Kurt nodded. “Yes.” He looked behind Blaine at the bridge. So far. So tall. It would have done the job. Everything would have been over. “To be honest, I do not—” He closed his eyes. “It would not have happened.”

Because he couldn’t do it. He still wanted to. There was nothing to prevent him from wanting. Not when he was going to return to that place. He could want. But he couldn’t act.

_Law Number Three. An android must protect its own existence. Provided it does not conflict with Laws One and Two._

“Are you sure?” Blaine’s voice is soft.

Kurt nodded. Yes. He was sure. “Thank you,” he whispered. He turned away and let his hand slip from Blaine’s. He needed to go. He needed the Key. He walked away from the bridge and from the kind man who cared.

“Wait!”

Kurt halted and turned to look at him.

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. A rush of air escaped his lips with a slight chuckle. “Uh, are you performing tomorrow?”

Of course, he was. It was his function. It was his life. “Yes.” Every night he was on that stage in Sector 10, with the men’s faces drawn on him. With their smiles, with their leers. He was designed to sing. He wasn’t designed for that.

Blaine smiled at him. “Okay. I’ll be there. I want to watch you. Maybe afterward we can—”

They can what? Kurt knew what people wanted from him after he performed. Blaine was no different, was he? His eyes moved to the bridge again. He should do it. Will he ever escape? He shook his head. “I do n—I do not know.” He wasn’t in charge. If Blaine wanted that, he would have to do talk to Sector 10’s owner, Kurt’s owner. His gaze dropped to the ground.

Blaine stepped forward, closed the gap between them and grabbed Kurt’s hand again. “Please. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. After your performance. My treat.” He smiled.

If he only knew. If he only knew what he just did. An order. He gave an order. Kurt couldn’t say ‘no.’ He had to. But what did this man want? He saved him from the edge of the bridge, yes, but what would he do if he knew what Kurt really was? “I—”

Blaine interrupted him. “Unless it’s—I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t want to assume. If it’s not, if you’re not—” He chuckled, dropped his eyes to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

Kurt smiled. An honest smile. A real one. He couldn’t help it. This Blaine, foul intentions or not, intrigued him. “It is okay. And I would like that.”

Blaine smiled. “Good. So, it’s a date.” He leaned in and kissed Kurt on the cheek.

Kurt felt the strange rush of warmth to his cheeks. He ducked his head.

_Law Number Four. No information available._

 

 

01010101010101010101

 

Kurt gasps. His eyes fly open. A foot slams against his back and he falls forward, catching himself on his hands.

_No. Please, don’t. Don’t take them. Please._ He needs them. They are all he has left.

When was it? When?

Two—no…

His eyes close and open. He stares at the gossamer shaft of moonlight across the wooden floor. A full moon. That would mean it was 27 days, 7 hours, 43 minutes—no, 8 hours and twenty minutes ago.

He met Blaine twenty-seven days, eight hours and twenty-one minutes ago.

No, fifty-four days. Fifty-four days, eight hours and twenty-two minutes.

It is safe. The memory was still there. Fragile. It still has a tenuous grip on his memory core.

He swipes at his mouth with a grimy hand. His wrist twinges—the wires and the servos stressed—and he winces. He struggles to keep his eyes open. So easy to close them, block out everything.

The man’s feet shuffles, the boots scraping across the floor, and his shadow falls across the moon shaft.

Kurt looks up. His body trembles, tiny electric shocks rushing through his systems.

His Owner kneels in front of him, a tangled mass of wires that had been connected to Kurt’s head dangles from his hand. He sighs. “Now, I didn’t want to do that. You understand that, don’t you? But you won’t let it go.”

Kurt swallows. “Yes, sir.”

“Good for you.” The Owner stands. Tall. Thin. Regal, even.

Kurt stutters. The cogs and springs and neuroprocessors buried somewhere inside his metallic body putter. The procedure drained him. He needs it. The Key. “It is time for the Key.”

The Owner shrugs. “I know.” He pulls out a small key from his pocket. Rotates it between his fingers.

They are in a simple room. Just as simplistic and old-fashioned as the key he holds in his hand. Not a computer in sight. Papers and pens litter the desks, sticking out of the drawers. Kurt himself is the most high-tech thing in the room.

Kurt’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He swallows—programming to make him appear human—clearing his throat. “Please?”

His Owner sighs and scoffs. He walks around Kurt, his leg bumping into him, and pads behind the desk. He grabs the bottom of the giant painting—abstract. A rainy nighttime street view. Reflections of the dancing lights on the wet pavement—and swings it away from the wall, revealing the safe behind it. For a world submerged in technology, where androids and OLED screens and flying cars are very much real and commonplace, Sector 10’s security is low-tech. The Owner hates relying on the technology, saying that the simple lock-and-key is enough to keep those who wanted in out. The Owner slides the small key he’d been playing with into the safe’s lock and opens it. The door squeaks open and he reaches for the Key. Sleek. A shimmering yellow stick with gold contacts.

The Owner turns the Key over and over in his hand, turning around to face Kurt. “But you know what? I’m not sure you deserve this.”

But—

What would happen to him if he didn’t get the Key? The Owner stands only five point five feet away. He could move faster. He could get to him, snatch the Key from him before he knew what happened. But then what? Kurt can’t put the Key inside himself. He couldn’t twist it, turn it.

He can’t snatch the Key either.

The Owner didn’t give him permission.

“I—I need it.” Kurt can only beg. He can feel the circuitry slowing, can feel the calculations in his mind grow sluggish. How much longer?

The Owner looks at him and sneers. “Maybe. But you disobeyed me tonight. Again. I told you to go to the private room. You had a client to… _entertain_. He was furious when you didn’t show. I was forced to lie.”

Kurt glances at the ground. No. That was not what happened. He threw him out. When he figured out what Kurt was, he threw him out. He shouldn’t have been in there, anyway. Not for that. Enough of that. He is lying to Kurt. He knows it and Kurt knows it. But it doesn’t matter. Kurt has to play along. “Forgive me, sir, but—” He wasn’t Blaine, words unspoken. “I am designed for performance. For singing. Dancing.” For getting on a stage and having the crowd love him. That is what he was made for. Not—

The Owner lunges forward and shoves Kurt backwards until his back hits the wall. “You were _designed_ to follow _my_ orders. And I _ordered_ you to perform for that man. Make him happy.”

Kurt could bring his hands up. Strike him down. Get the man away from him. But he can’t. He can only shake his head uselessly. He can only feel the strange burn in the back of his eyes. “No. Please, no more.” He can only beg.

The Owner laughs, looking at him and narrowing his eyes. “Are you…are you crying?”

Kurt looks away. He sniffles. A redness seeps through his cheeks—such intricate programming; some people would be amazed—and he pulls his arms close, wrapped around his waist. He shivers. “I am incapable of—”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

Kurt’s mouth snaps closed. He keeps his eyes down, catching a glance at the Key still in his Owner’s hand. He needs it. “Please, sir. I need the Key. I will do anything.”

“Anything?”

Kurt looks at him.

He raises his eyebrow. Smirks. He waits.

Would Kurt regret it?

“Yes, sir.”

Silence. One minute passes. Then, one minute thirty-two seconds. Thirty-three, thirty-four—

The man’s lip curls. His nose wrinkles. “You make me sick. Turn around.”

Kurt does. An order. Must follow it. Law Number Two.

He hears the man approach, his feet tapping on the wooden floor. His hands on him—don’t flinch—and a click. Kurt gasps. The small door on the back of his neck swings open and the cool air rushes in. He shivers. The man’s fingers enter and Kurt cringes, holds in a whimper of pain, of humiliation. The shock of electric pulses and a quiet series of beeps. The Key was inserted.

Kurt takes a deep breath, feeling a rush of energy. The door on his neck closes with a snap and Kurt opens his eyes.

“Time to get out there,” the Owner states. He brushes past Kurt, the breeze his body created rustling Kurt’s hair.

An order. Kurt has no choice but to obey. He climbs to his feet, fighting the tiny electrical pulses throughout his body.

“You’re due on that stage in five minutes. Don’t keep your audience waiting. And don’t go looking for _him_.” He leaves, slamming the office door behind him.

Kurt feels that strange burn behind his eyes.

A tear falls.

 


	2. Chapter Two

Kurt’s eyes glide from the stage to the tabletop in front of him. Forty-four rings in the wax coating—thirty-three irregular shapes, condensation left large blobs here and there on the rings; eleven near perfect circles. Two hundred and sixty-two small crumbs lay scattered across the sticky surface—pretzels, bread. His eyes flick back to the stage. He was done up there for the evening.

Now, a man, drunk, stumbling, mumbles his way through “It’s Not Unusual,” atrociously off-key and off-beat. The man fumbles, his feet tangling together, and bumps into the red drapery behind the stage. Kurt wants back up there. Up there, he could rearrange the algorithms in his mind and file memories away and focus on the music. But he’s not up there. He is crammed into the booth in the back of Sector 10, fighting the programming buried inside himself.

The man seated beside him, Robert, leans against his rigid form. His body is warm—ninety-nine point one degrees Fahrenheit—where his shoulder presses Kurt into the back of the booth seat. The man looks at him, his eyes drooping and his smile doltish. His hand fumbles around the table until his fat fingers wrap around the crystal tumbler, wet with the condensation—it will be another irregular ring on the table. He hauls it to his lips, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim and dribbling down his chin. “And you know what he said to me?”

“No, I do not.” Kurt allows his eyes to dance across the patrons of Sector 10, searching the crowd. Looking for the slick gelled hair. The amber eyes. The bow tie. Blaine. Will he show up tonight? Why has not he shown up since that night? Is he not concerned? Kurt heard the tales of many men who came here, crying over a lost love who ceased all contact after an intimate night together.

But Blaine—

He is not like that. He cannot be.

He wasn’t the one who ran. It was Kurt. Kurt ran.

Robert isn't the worst client his Owner has ordered him to entertain. He is quite harmless, spending the evening throwing back drinks and wallowing in his grief of a broken relationship. Yet another in a long line of failed relationships, if Kurt understands his lamentations. Robert tossed another glass back, his arm bumping into Kurt.

Kurt sways away from the intrusion. He looked away, his eyes land on a painting across the booth. Painted in a style intended to resemble the smooth brush strokes of the masters from centuries ago, the subject matter resembled both nothing and everything Kurt could find in his databases of Renaissance paintings. A nude man on a bed, one arm thrown over his head. His other hand rests in his lap, framing his generous penis. His eyes meet the viewer’s, an act of defiance. The nude man enjoys the attention of a well-dressed man stands in an opened doorway, leering.

His Owner’s tastes leave a lot to be desired.

“He said I was clingy. Clingy!” Robert collapses against him—Kurt tears his eyes away from the painted man’s. “Clingy. _Really_.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” A small lie. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t want to harm the man’s feelings—he _can’t_ —so he gives him the most reasonable and concerning reply he can.

Kurt’s Owner catches his gaze across the club and raises his eyebrows. Kurt understands the sign. He needs to hurry things along.

Warm fingers dig into the front of Kurt’s shirt. He looks down, staring at Robert’s fingers as they weave their way past the buttons of his shirt. Kurt grabs his hand, halting him. “What are you doing?”

Robert tilts his head on Kurt’s shoulder, gazing up at him. He smiles. “Has anyone told you that you’re beautiful?”

Kurt gasps.

 

Kurt looked around the restaurant, his hand clasped in Blaine’s. Clean, curved walls. Flowing arches stretching skyward.

Blaine squeezed Kurt’s hand in his.

Kurt looked away from the sweeping ceiling above them to meet his eyes.

“This isn’t too forward, is it?” Blaine asked.

Kurt flushed. “N-not at all.”

He’d never been to a place that wasn’t Sector 10. He studied the patrons. The finest fabrics designed by some of the finest designers of City 40-48. Diamonds. Gold. Wines at tables from the most prestigious wineries in the world. He stared at the back of Blaine’s head. Could he afford this? Or was this some kind of attempt at giving a good impression? How many times had he listened to men rage about such things? Why would someone of his standing visit Sector 10? It was a foul place in a foul part of the City. Run by an equally foul man.

The maître d’ stopped at the table. Kurt halted just behind Blaine, his chest just brushing Blaine’s back.

“Here we are, Mr. Anderson.” The maître d’ placed the menus on the table. Gave a small nod.

Blaine smiled.  “Thank you, William.” He pulled Kurt’s chair out.

Kurt paused. It was for the smallest of fractions. His positronic brain raced, researching and calculating. He daydreamed—his mind capable of so many things at once—of something like this happening to him. But the Owner had always told him it would never happen. No one cared about a piece of machinery. Did Blaine? Did Blaine understand what he was? Did he not care? What message would accepting the invitation to sit entail? Was there a message to send?

He sat, smiling at Blaine.

He wanted this.

Blaine moved around the table and sat across from him. He reached across and took Kurt’s hand again. How warm and pleasant it felt, someone’s gentle touch. “You were amazing on that stage tonight.”

_The club was dark. A spotlight on the stage was the only light. Kurt had entered. Stood alone in front of the microphone. And sang._

_Just him._

_No one else._

_No instruments._  

_“Birds flying. You know how I feel. Sun’s in the sky, you know how I feel. Sun’s in the sky, you know how I feel. Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel. It’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. It’s a new life for me. Yeah, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me. Ooh, and I’m feeling good.”_

Kurt dropped his eyes, looking down at his closed menu—it was written in Italian. Elegant black cursive print. Decorative filigree designs. Impressive—he blushed again, the nano-receptors under his skin sending pigments to his skin. “Thank you.”

Blaine squeezed his hand—Kurt looked at him—and tilted his head, his large eyes staring. “No, I mean it. I’m so glad you were up on that stage tonight instead—”

Kurt shook his head. “Do not.” He wanted to forget the failed attempt, though that was impossible. “I am—I am glad you found me. When you did.”

“Me, too.”

Kurt smiled, looking at their joined hands. It was so strange. This feeling. He glanced at Blaine.

Blaine tilted his head, a smile on his face.

Kurt's mechanisms fluttered. He bit his lip. “What?”

Blaine took a breath and shook his head. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

 

Kurt releases a shaky breath. He drops his gaze back to the tabletop, a tear clings to his lashes. He blinks and it falls, splashing onto the table. “Yes. Someone did. Once.” He feels as if the metals inside him are creaking, quavering, on the verge of collapse. His chest rises, a sharp intake of unneeded air—a mere feat of programming—but it hitches with his exhalation. He stares at his hands on the table. Hands that felt the warmth of Blaine’s touch. Hands that clung to him in the depths of passion and desperation, as Blaine took him to places he did not know existed. That he had no way of comprehending until Blaine.

He misses him. He wants to see him. What does Blaine think of him? _Does_ he think of him? Kurt could not forget Blaine’s whispered admissions of hatred when he spoke of his childhood. Of the androids he was so frequently left alone with. They were his real parents, he said, tightening his arms around Kurt, resting his head on his naked chest. _And I hated every single one of those robots. And I made a vow when I left to_ never _own one. The damned things can rot in hell for all I care._ He laughed then, a small chuckle. _But I guess they can’t do that, can they? Just pieces of metal and plastic and whatever else those scientists can come up with._

Kurt stilled in his arms, his body growing stiff. Blaine propped himself on his elbow, looking down at Kurt. “What’s wrong?”

Kurt shook his head. _I’m one of them. Do you hate me?_ The words were stuck in his throat. “What about the androids that have saved human lives? The ones that enter dangerous situations so soldiers’ and law enforcement officers’ lives are spared. Are they not a testament to the scientist’s mission?”

Blaine nodded. “I suppose you’re right. They do have their good uses.” He leaned in and kissed Kurt, bringing his free hand up to cup Kurt’s cheek. Pulling back, he smiled. “But I don’t want to talk about them anymore. I want to talk about how much I—”

A hot wet hand brushes across Kurt’s chest.

Kurt starts, his eyes jumping from the table as he is jerked from the memory. He blinks. Once. Twice. Stares at the hand on his chest digging past his shirt, seeking Kurt’s flesh.

Robert hums. “I mean, seriously. You’re fucking gorgeous. We should go somewhere where we can be alone. I want to see all of you.”

And there it is. What the Owner is always counting on when he sends Kurt out among the patrons. And once, Kurt did it. Of course, he still does it. He has to. Law Number One. But ever since Blaine—

He shudders. “Please, do not touch me.”

Robert laughs, letting his hand drift lower. “Make me,” he slurs.

Kurt closes his eyes. An electric shock shoots through his body. He stills momentarily. Two laws conflicting. He doesn't want this man near him. He doesn’t want to feel his body on his. He doesn’t have to. Robert has given him an order— _make me_ —he can follow it. But doing so will mean—

Robert leans in and his lips graze Kurt’s.

Kurt jumps to his feet, scrambling away. No. NO! Blaine. Only Blaine. Blaine who hates everything about Kurt—who would hate him if he _knew._

The man falls forward, tumbling from the booth, collapsing at Kurt's feet. Robert yelps. His glass tumbler shoots from his hand and slams into the ground, shattering.

Everyone stops. Everyone watches.

Kurt remains still, hands at his side. His chest heaving rapidly—the programming designed to fool the humans around him.

“What the fuck?!” Robert yells.

“I requested that you not touch me.” Kurt shakes his head. “You did not listen.”

Robert tucks his legs underneath him. Then attempts to stand, but as drunk as he is, he fumbles. He grunts. And tries again. Succeeds.

Kurt offers no help.

“You’re insane,” Robert says, wiping sweat from his brow. He spits on the ground in front of Kurt then stumbles out of the club.

Kurt turns around and stops, the Owner's gaze on him. Stern. Angry. He takes a deep breath. He knows what will happen now. He broke the rules. He will have to accept the punishment.

 

0101010101010

 

The office is quiet. The grandfather clock—an heirloom from days past—keeps time in the corner of the office. _Tick-tock. Tick-tock._ Beyond the closed door, the dampened music seeps through the crack at the floor. For most of the club's patrons, Kurt's incident with Robert is already forgotten.

Kurt, of course, will never forget. He won't forget the way he felt when the man's hands drifted. When the man pressed his lips on his. He stares at the desk in front of him, his hands wringing together. The Key. The Owner left the Key on the desk. He glances at the closed door behind him.

Can he do it?

Can he risk it?

Sparks race through his body, shocking his system. He can’t. No. He can’t.

But he closes his eyes and sees Blaine. His memories of their time together—that is already something that is slowly being stolen from him. He has no way of computing how much longer he’ll keep those lingering memories. There are too many variables, with his Owner’s temper dominating. He reaches out, fingers outstretched, brushing across the metallic key—

The door swings open and the Owner storms in, slamming it shut with a loud BANG! “What the hell was that?”

Kurt doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t move, save for dropping his hand in his lap. “He wanted something I was unwilling to give him. My heart belongs to Blaine.”

His Owner snorts. He moves to stand in front of Kurt. “Heart?” He laughs. Bracing himself against his desk, he kicks out. His foot collides with Kurt’s shoulder and the force shoves Kurt backwards, somersaulting over the chair and into the wall near the door. The Owner seethes, “You don’t have a heart!”

Kurt doesn’t move, only shaking his head. “I love him.”

“Get up,” the irate man orders. “Pick up the chair and sit down.”

Kurt climbs over the chair, rising to his feet. His hand hooks under the back of the chair and he stands it upright. Walking to the front of the chair, he sits. His hands tremble.

The Owner retrieves the Key.

“Can I see him? I have done as you asked. I have stayed here. I have performed. I have entertained. For twenty-one days, five hours—”

“That’s enough.”

“Can I please see him? At least to explain where I have been.”

The Owner approaches him from behind. “No.”

Kurt pulls his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees and bringing them to his chest. The tears pours from his eyes. “Please?”

The man pries open the back of Kurt’s head.

Kurt shudders, a high whine escaping his mouth. “Please. I need to see him.”

“No.”

Kurt’s breath hitches. “Please, do not do this.”

“That’s enou—”

The Owner’s voice dissipates with a POP! And a pall of darkness falls over his eyes.

His breath hitches.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Can’t hear. Can’t see. Can’t even feel the chair he is sitting in. How much time has passed?

A familiar burn in his chest. That, he can feel.

A breath, sharp, expands his chest. The servos in his brain whirl. A razor-sharp shock.

A loud _SMASH!_

No. No, not real. Not real.

A flutter of breath across the back of his neck.

He shudders.

It’s like running. It’s like running down a long dark corridor. Where is the switch?

_POUND! POUND! POUND!_

He grapples for his senses. But there’s nothing. Another shock. An opening.

And—

 

The door closed with a quiet click as the locked engaged. Kurt’s hands trembled. He had never been in another man’s home before. He glanced around—sleek, but a hint of an era from years ago. His Owner preferred keeping Kurt at the club, keeping his investment close by, even as he made sure clients had everything they wanted. His eyes fell back onto Blaine’s.

Blaine tilted his head. “Are you all right?” He reached down and took Kurt’s hands in his. “I don’t want you to do something you’re not ready for.”

Kurt shook his head. “It is okay.” Kurt surged forward, kissing Blaine. He wanted it. This time, he wanted it. He spun him around and slammed Blaine into the door with a loud WHAM! Blaine moaned and Kurt’s hands fell to the waistband of his pants. His fingers deftly unbuttoned them. He’s done this before. So many times.

Blaine pulled away from the kiss, his hands falling to Kurt’s, stopping him. “Wait. Wait.”

Kurt froze. “I am sorry. I thought—”

Blaine cupped Kurt’s face and brought his mouth to his. A soft, gentle kiss. “It’s okay. But slow, okay? I want it to be what you deserve."

"What do you mean?" He didn't deserve anything. He's an object created in a lab for the amusement of humans.

But Blaine wasn't like that.

Blaine leaned in for another kiss. “I’m going to take you—” He moved his lips to Kurt's jaw. “—to my room and—” Down Kurt's neck, lips pressing, teeth nipping.

Kurt’s eyes rolled closed. He moaned and gripped Blaine’s shoulders.

“—lay you out naked on my bed.” Blaine returned his mouth to Kurt’s. "Make you see the heaven and stars."

Kurt whimpered.

Blaine took his hand in his and led him down the hall. They reached the closed door and Kurt pulled Blaine close. His mouth sought his. They collide against the door. Blaine twisted the handle—

 

A loud _CRAAAAAAASH!_

Kurt gasps. Frozen. Can’t move.

A whine deep and low in his chest struggles to escape.

Nothing. There’s nothing.

A feather-soft across the back of his neck—

 

Kurt gasped, arching his back. His shoulders dug into the soft mattress beneath him. His chest pressed against Blaine's body.

“There you go,” Blaine whispered, dropping his lips against Kurt’s. His fingers thrust inside of Kurt.

Kurt shuddered, reaching a hand out and grasping Blaine’s wrist. His other hand clenched Blaine’s naked shoulder. His fingernails cut small crescent moons into his skin. He whimpered.

Blaine stilled his fingers, dropping a kiss on Kurt's forehead. “Are you okay? Is this too much?”

Kurt shook his head, his eyes closing. “Please, do not stop. It feels amazing.”

Blaine added another finger, thrusting three fingers inside. Twisting them, curling them until he stroked the little nub inside.

Kurt squealed, clenching around Blaine's fingers. “Oh! Oh, my god. Please.”

But Blaine pulled his fingers out.

Kurt whined. “No.”

Blaine laughed and kissed him. “Shh.” He rose up, leaning back on his haunches, and grabbed the bottle of lube from the bed. He opened it and poured some into his hand. He stroked his cock, coating it. He poured more on his fingers and brushed them across Kurt’s hole.

Kurt shuddered, reaching his hands out for Blaine. “Please.”

Blaine crawled across him, aligning himself. He pushed deep within him, hips moving slowly then stilled. Kurt moaned, wrapping his arms around Blaine’s shoulders. He pulled him close, pressing their chests together. He felt the cold slickness of the lube drip from his ass to the bed.

Blaine thrust once—Kurt cried out—twice. He stopped, panting. “Are you alright?”

Kurt nodded, shifting underneath him, spreading his legs further. The move forced Blaine’s cock further inside. He gasped. “Please, move.”

Blaine propped himself on his elbows and pulled his cock out until just the head remained then pushed forward, his cock gliding back inside.

Kurt’s eyes slammed shut, cutting off his view of the ceiling. He shut off the calculations in his head. Blaine thrust in again and again. Kurt whimpered and he ran his hand across Blaine’s back to his neck, tangling in his sweaty curly hair. Blaine shivered above him.

A smile graced Kurt’s face and he pulled Blaine down for a kiss. “I love you.”

Blaine moaned against his lips, his lips stalling.

Kurt wrapped his legs around Blaine’s waist, pulling him closer and deeper, trapping his own cock between their moving bodies. “I need—” He panted against Blaine’s lips. “Please.”

“Shh. I’ve got you.” Blaine twisted his hips and Kurt mewled into his mouth. He slammed into Kurt, grinding against his ass, Kurt’s cock rubbing against his stomach. Kurt cried out, his fingers tightening around his shoulders.

Blaine pulled back and slammed into him again. And again.

Kurt threw his head back, feeling a tightness in his balls, in his legs and his lower back. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Please.”

Grunting, Blaine twisted his hips. Kurt keened, trembling. Blaine balanced himself on one elbow and reached between them, grabbing Kurt’s cock in his hand. He smeared the pre-cum dripping from the tip across Kurt’s length. He pumped his hand in rhythm with his thrusts.

And Kurt exploded, arching off the bed. Sparks rushed through his body, tingling. And his hands clamped on Blaine's arms—Blaine grunted in pain and Kurt's hands jerked away, falling to the bed. “Sorry—”

Blaine shook his head. “I like it.” And after a couple more thrusts, he jerked his hips one final time, spilling inside Kurt. He collapsed against him. His mouth sought Kurt’s, a hand cupping the back of Kurt’s neck to bring him closer.

Kurt wrapped his arms around his shoulders, opening his mouth to him. “I love—”

 

_SNAP!_

White. Blinding. Overwhelming.

Kurt gasps. He falls from the chair, toppling to the ground with a heavy thud. His limbs shake.

“Wakey-wakey.”

“What—” He blinks, shakes his head, and his eyes dart around the room.

“You’ve got an important visitor coming soon. Time to get presentable.”


End file.
